


The Way Wolves Do

by AvaRosier



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 18:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11950485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: AU in which Jon Snow grew up in Essos with Viserys and Daenerys before arriving in Westeros with the invasion force. After nearly meeting his end witnessing with his own two eyes the existence of White Walkers and their army of the dead, he is rescued by Sansa. The journey back via boat proves eventful.





	The Way Wolves Do

 

When he arrived in the North, landing in White Harbor, it had been the first time he’d seen snow- the first time he’d felt that kind of cold. Jon loved it: the way the air felt clean unlike some of the places in Essos he’d ventured, and when the ground was covered in a blanket of snow as far as the eye could see, he felt like the world was still and quiet.  Maybe it was the Northman in him.

But nothing could have prepared him for the deep freeze beyond the Wall nor the numbness that came from plunging into an icy lake after battling Death itself.

Now, as he lies under a mountain of thick furs, blood flowing back into limbs and appendages once more, Jon wonders at this new perspective he has gained of the world. Of Westeros. Of home.

Where it is, and where it is not. Where it had never been, and with whom.

Viserys had always hated Jon, there had never been a time when this was not clear to him.  _Snow_ , his uncle had taunted him, sneering as he packed all the blame for their dire straits into that single word: the stain of bastardy and never belonging. Yet Jon had remained with them- where else would he go? They had left him behind, though, and it was not until some time later that  Daenerys, the Khaleesi with three infant dragons, had come to take him away from the Second Sons.

She’d had a purpose, then, and a good heart. Ending the slavery their ancestors had brought to the cities around the bay was a noble pursuit and, despite his disquiet about the dragons, Jon had gladly followed. He could be a hero now, a knight like the few stories he had managed to overhear from Westerosi men during his time with the Second Sons. Aemon the Dragonknight had been his favorite.

But it hadn’t turned out that way.  He would have had to been truly obstinate to not see how little patience his aunt had for governance, how dangerous her frustration could be when extremely complicated problems did not immediately resolve themselves, and how contradictory her judgments could be. When it had taken so much effort for Jon and the Imp to convince her not to burn thousands of innocent people in Meereen, he had felt fear.

The way she would look at him sometimes…it had not taken Jon long to realize that he was, like the Unsullied and the Dothraki, ‘freed’ for her use.  In his case, being the only other male of Targaryen lineage meant he was the best option she had for a consort once she took the Iron Throne. 

There are many things Jon Snow regrets, and the knowledge that they had broken the chains on the enslaved only to abandon them to a likely awful fate haunts him to this day. He had known that  _something_  had to change, that there  _had_  to be a better way, but he had not know how…not until…

 

 

The cabin door opens with a quiet ‘snick’ and a slow creak. Jon turns from the window to look at his visitor. She stands tall, her bearing regal in a sincere and forthright manner. Something in his heart quickens at the sight of her long red hair catching the candlelight; the broad, pale planes of her face so very Northern. But her eyes? If given leave Jon would gladly drown in them- the blue that truly lasts.

“Lady Stark?” He cringes at the way his voice croaks. “Have you come to yell at me for being a fool?” 

Sansa Stark, recently restored as Lady of Winterfell, and named Queen in the North by her people, steps around the bed until she stands before him. Jon pushes himself up until he’s sitting with his back against the skillfully carved wood headboard. He will say this for House Manderly- they build exquisite ships.

“No. It appears my relief to find you alive has outweighed both my fear and my anger.” She smiles at him, the kind that tells him she’s not truly wroth with him. “And I have told you time and time again to call me Sansa.”

He is unrepentant as he grins at her. “You will have to tell me at least once more, it seems.”

When they had first met, all those months ago in White Harbor, after she had fled the cruelties of Ramsay Bolton, Jon had chosen to call her Lady Stark, in pointed contrast to his aunt’s disparaging tendency to refer to her as Lady Bolton or, even still, 'the Usurper’s dog’. It had been worth it, his aunt’s rage, when she found out Jon had taken his small band of Unsullied and helped Sansa, the Northern lords loyal to her, and the Knights of the Vale to retake Winterfell.

But now, even with a new war shaping up in the south, all the kingdoms have an ancient enemy darkening their gates. The dead army, with their otherworldly leaders, approach with the relentless inevitability of the winter and the long night. The things his cousin Bran knew- things he had no possible ways of knowing unless he spoke the truth about this Three-Eyed Raven- had shaken Jon to his core. But he had needed to see these creatures with his own two eyes…hence this foolhardy mission.

He wouldn’t mind her anger right now, and not just because he deserves it. She had argued with him before he left- tried to sway him from his decision to head beyond the Wall. The memory is seared across his eyelids- passion coloring her cheeks and conviction leaving her breathless as they stared at one other, unprepared for the intensity of their emotion.

It is enough to make his cock thicken under the furs. Fortunately they are thick enough to shield him from her notice. Though…she seems to be trying not to show how often her attention strays to his bared chest.

“It doesn’t appear a fever will take you,” Sansa says. 

“No,” he murmurs, meeting her eyes once more. “You have my gratitude, La-  _Sansa,_  for saving my life. Though I barely deserve it.”

Sansa lets out a huff. “Of course I would come for you! Jon, I-” Looking pained and fishing for the right words, she impulsively steps closer to the bed and sits down on top of the furs. She grabs his hand and pulls it closer to her skirts, squeezing tight as if she would never let go. “I could not have taken my home back without your help, nor could I have shouldered the burden of ruling the North without you there-

“No, you-” he begins to argue, but Sansa shuts him up with a stern shake of her head and a mulish tilt to her chin. 

(He dreams of babes with dark, curly hair, and that mulish tilt of the chin.)

“-you make me feel like I’m not alone. Don’t you understand? You’re my family, too,” she insists.

 _I love you_.

A strange emotion bubbles up in him, robbing him of his breath. Elation? Belonging? And something more, even deeper, which he could no longer deny to even himself. As if realizing how improper her words and behavior could be, Sansa releases his hand to add: “Besides, if you had died, your aunt may well have flown North with her dragons to burn us all.”

It’s only half a jest but the heat of humiliation sweeps over him, followed by the clammy sensation of fear, because she is right. For Daenerys is focused on nothing but that godsforsaken chair and willing to do anything necessary to secure it, and thus far she has done little else but compound the suffering of the people since she had arrived on these shores. Burnt food, a ravaged population, and a choice between a cruel death or false loyalty which is no choice at all.

“I won’t let her,” Jon insists, leaning closer so he can cup Sansa’s face in between his hands. They are scarred and burnt, roughened from years of hard work, and he knows he does not deserve to touch her like this. “I know you have little reason to trust my word, but Sansa, you _are_ so good at this, at ruling. You have earned their respect and their admiration. I can see how they love you.”

He thinks she believes him; he hopes she believes it of herself. 

Watching her listen to the concerns of her people from a dais barely raised, Jon had immediately been struck by the entirely different approach Sansa (as had her father before her, so he had heard) took to ruling. She focused her efforts on making sure her people would have food and shelter for the winter and listened carefully to the advice of seasoned warriors like Bronze Yohn Royce and experienced Lords for how to prepare their soldiers for a war on more than one front.  In her decisions, she strove to be a fair and just leader, and it had been extraordinary to look in the eyes of not only the smallfolk but the stern and untrusting Northern lords and ladies and realize that _this_  was what respect truly looked like- not terror that tried to claim it was love.

There are many things Jon Snow regrets. He hates that he, for even a moment, followed his aunt’s directives to seduce Sansa with the intention of getting her to bend the knee and deliver to Dany the North. He may have confessed his intended subterfuge, but he worries that the price he’s paid is that he can never tell her the truth in his heart and be believed.

“I can see how they love you, because I feel the same way.” His declaration echoes in the sudden silence of the cabin. Not even the frame of the ship dares creak, as if the vessel is aware of the tension, thick with possibility. 

“Jon!” Sansa whispers, shock writ plainly on her face. She’s told him of her years in King’s Landing, of how she learned to hide her wolf so deep inside they forgot and thought her a dog. Or how she acted like a bird, singing the pretty songs her jailers wished to hear. But listening and learning, always dreaming of the day she could freely be a Stark once more.

 _Now you have to decide who you want to be_ , she had told him that night.

“You can’t possibly love me-”

“But I do. Whatever happened between my mother and my father, he married her in the style of his ancestors and I could lay claim to the Targaryen name. It’s just as well my uncle and aunt referred to me as ‘Snow’ instead of ‘Waters’.” He chuckles wryly. “Apparently my father even gave me a Targaryen name, -”

He is interrupted by Sansa’s fingers on his lips. Her touch leaves tingles in its wake and his skin feels like tiny sparks of lightning are dancing over his body- that’s how aware he is of how close their faces now are. “Whatever name Rhaegar gave you does not matter. The Old Gods, and the Smith, they fashioned you in the likeness of a Stark, so that you would always have your mother with you. No matter what they say, you  _are_  a Stark to me.”

“No, Sansa. I’d rather be a trueborn Snow for you. But I would marry you, I would take your name, and I would live out all the rest of my days- however many or few they be- loving you and serving the North.” 

Her breath is every bit as ragged as his as she rests her forehead against his own. What Jon wants is everything he never thought he would have, and it’s all at his fingertips. It’s all tangled up in the soft waves of Sansa’s hair and the way she clutches at his shoulders like it’s everything she ever wanted, too.

“I’m not a maid anymore-” 

“I don’t care.”

“The High Septon may not consider my marriage to Tyrion nullified, even after Ramsay.”

“Fuck them, the North is independent, it recognizes no laws but its own. And fuck Tyrion if he tries to say otherwise,” he says roughly. She lets out an incredulous giggle at his irreverence. 

They are so close now, her eyes are so vulnerable and hopeful, but Jon does not move. This moment is hers because it’s what has been taken from her over and over again.

So it is Sansa who tips forward, pressing her lips to his. Soft but sure. Jon doesn’t leave her waiting, but meets her with equal fervor. They are not careful and why should they be? Into their kiss they pour their desperation and pent up longing. She can’t seem to resist nipping at his bottom lip with her teeth, his Wolf Queen, and Jon shudders when that tongue of hers, pink and nimble, darts out to assuage the hurt.

“Sansa,” he groans, before introducing his tongue to hers. He’s careful not to press his suit too strongly, and it is Sansa who moans into his mouth and encourages his tongue even deeper. Perhaps without realizing it, she is halfway into his lap and Jon accepts this excuse to wrap his arms around her, to feel how solid she is, how real.

Their kisses build and build and neither of them seems content to calm the conflagration threatening to overtake them. When Jon releases her lips so he can lay hot, wet kisses along the slender column of her neck, Sansa’s heartbeat practically leaps into his mouth. 

“Jon, oh… _please_!”  Her hands, less shy, slide boldly over the muscles in his back, even daring to trace along the indentations in his ribcage. His stomach clenches, a sweet agony that makes his cock ever harder.

He’ll give her whatever she wants, anything. “Your clothes-” he says. “Let me feel you.”

She sits back, eyes dark with desire and lips hopelessly swollen, and holds his attention as she slowly undoes the clasp of the belt and lets it fall with a clatter to the wooden beams below. She turns around and sweeps her hair off her back, looking over her shoulder with a grace that is almost holy.

“Undo me?”

His fingers tremble as they comply and bit by bit, his patience is rewarded with glimspes of her skin. It takes a fair bit of self-control to quell his rage at the sight of the old scars on her back. Sansa rises and shimmies until her dress is pooling down around her feet. She stands before him in a shift and stockinged legs; in the warm light he can see the shadow between her thighs and the slightly darker hue of her nipples against the white.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her, sighing as she presses a palm to his cheek. He turns his head just so and kisses it, not stopping as she indulges herself carding her fingers through his loose curls. 

“There was a woman in Winterfell, loyal to me in whatever little way she could. She would bring me moon tea after Ramsay…” Sansa trails off. “So while I never quickened with a babe, I have to expect that I still could…”

“Have no fear, my lady. I do know a few things, after all,” he grins at her before flinging the furs aside and standing up. She scarcely has a chance to widen her eyes, startled, let alone glance downwards, for he is lifting her in his arms and depositing her onto her back on the bed. 

He kneels before her, ready to worship at her altar. 

“There are so many ways I can give you pleasure,” he rumbles, sliding the hem of her shift ever so slowly up over her hips until the red thatch at the apex of her trembling thighs is revealed. “Do you even know how long I’ve dreamed of tasting you? Of supping on your sweet cunt?” He tells her roughly, pulling her bottom to the edge of the bed and lowering his head until he could kiss the dark pink lips.

Sansa bucks against his mouth, hands tightening in his hair as her thighs do the same around his head. Jon is ruthless: he licks along the unfurling petals of her flower, swirls his tongue and suckles on that hidden button that makes her mewl loudly. 

She finds her peak quickly, with a cry that he half expects to send guards rushing in. He barely gives her any quarter, sliding two fingers into the slick heat and feeling her clamp down around them. He builds her back up again, exulting in the death grip she has on his hair, keeping him pressed to her cunt until he gives her satisfaction once again.

And satisfaction he gives her, her cries of “ _Jonjonjonjon_ ” musical to his ears.

She releases him with a harsh inhalation and he sits back on his heels before her, panting noisily. Gradually, he starts peppering kisses along the skin of her abdomen, tracing his nose over her shift until he can close his mouth over a nipple through the material and lave it with his tongue. Beneath his hands, Sansa’s ribcage rises and falls violently.

She surprises him before he can capture the castle, so to speak, with a kiss, and shoves him over onto his back on the furs. He can’t help it, the way he rubs his bare bottom against the softness, but it brings her attention to his cock. 

Sansa’s lips part as she straddles his hips and holds her shift aloft, daring at last to pull it over her head. Left in naught but her stockings with the pretty blue ribbon that holds them up,  _she_  undoes  _him_. Her teats are small but lovely, her skin smooth but marred by her own battles.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he groans, eyes drifting shut, as she bites her lip and strokes his cock. It is red by this point, and weeping from need. He endures this torture, gripping the give of her thighs. When she replaces her hand with the glide of her wet cunt along the underside of his shaft, he moves his hands until one cups a breast and the other digs into the meat of her ass. 

“Aye, that’s it,” he encourages her, “ride me. Ride me like the Wolf Queen you are.”

Sansa furrows her eyebrows, hands braced against his chest as she cants her hips back and forth, chasing her own pleasure. She takes and takes from him as Jon holds onto whatever threads of control he has to not spill his seed like a green boy. Her teats wobble and her thighs clench but more than it all, he is drawn to the almost feral look in her eyes as her movements become more shallow.

Finally, yet much too soon, Sansa yelps and arches her back, tensing then shaking as her release overtakes her. Jon rocks his hips, allowing himself to at last let go, rubbing himself against her cunt as thick spurts of seed erupt onto his stomach.

The candles have nearly burned through their wax while Sansa lies bonelessly on top of him, nuzzling his cheek as he whispers endearments into her ear. She permits him to wash her with water from a nearby pitcher, and readily curls up against his side when he bids her to move beneath the furs. They will have to part soon for propriety’s sake, but for now Jon is content to take whatever she is willing to give.

There are many things Jon Snow regrets. 

But not this.

Never this.


End file.
